Tales of the birds

by W. Warde Fowler

This was too tempting a proposal to be resisted. The egg continued in the nest, and in due time it was hatched. There was no difference between the chick of the queer egg, and those that came from the others. The mother-bird was right, and on the strength of this she got her own way in other matters. Her husband had loved and admired her, and now he also obeyed her, because of her prudence and wisdom. When old Gaffer came, uninvited, to look at the chick, she actually ordered her husband to drive him away; which he did with such valour that the old gentleman lost three of his tail feathers, and retired in great wrath to a neighbouring branch to recover his breath. When he had got it he croaked out a dismal prophecy for the chick, which struck terror into the hearts of the rooks in that tree; and in fact the whole matter was the cause of much scandal.

Old Gaffer did not venture to the nest again; his reputation for wisdom had been shaken, and his damaged tail was secretly made fun of by the younger birds. But he let it be known through a friend that there was no doubt whatever in his mind that young Jetsom would be shot—and serve him right—at the rook-shooting next month. It is only the oldest birds that think of the shooting beforehand; they know it is coming and take it as a matter of course. The colony must not be overstocked with young birds, which are often impudent and annoying, and the old inhabitants are not sorry to get rid of them.

When May came the young birds were one day perching on the edges of their nests, and taking short flights to exercise their wings; Jetsom was among them, as fine a young bird as any, and the peculiar pride of his parents. Some men came under the trees with guns, the parent-birds cawed loudly to their young, and all was noise and disturbance. Bang went the guns; half-a-dozen young rooks fell dead or struggling through the branches. The others took flight a short way, but thinking all was safe again, returned very soon to their tree. Young Jetsom however, who was stronger of wing than most, got carried on by a gust of wind, and found himself very soon over a ploughed field, where a few rooks were peaceably feeding. He dropped down on it, rather flustered and tired, and seeing the other birds poking their bills into the ground, and turning over the clods, began to do the same. Presently one of them came near him, looked at him, cawed, flapped its wings, and said, “Who are you? You don’t belong to us.”

Jetsom explained as well as he could.

“My young friend,” said the rook, “you had better make haste and go. It’s my duty to hustle you to death for coming here, and I shall do it if you stay another minute. Be off, before the others see you. Here they come—”

Jetsom heard no more; he was off, and on the other side of the nearest hedge, before the other rooks could come up; and there he lay for some time, too frightened at first to think. When he recovered himself life presented itself to him in a new aspect; it was evidently not all grubs and wire-worms. It was rather a serious matter. There were other rooks besides those of his colony, and they were not friendly. It was possible to get hustled to death by them. How much there was to be learnt in the world! You had hard work to keep the skin on your bones, to avoid being shot, made a scare-crow of, hustled to death. Why was all this? Why not live in peace with your neighbours? Why should men shoot at you when they laid out allotments for your express benefit? All this was very puzzling to Jetsom, as he lay still under the hedge; things were certainly not as they should be. He could hear the shooting going on in the distance, but at last it stopped, and he summoned up courage to take flight homewards.

When he reached the tree, and perched tired out on the first branch he came to, all was hubbub and confusion: but above the din he could hear the hoarse voice of old Gaffer, who had ventured himself quite close to the nest, and was addressing his parents.

“Do you know what they do with the young birds they shoot?” said that well-informed old bird. “They pull all the feathers out of their bodies, put them all together into a big dish, and bake them over the fire. Then they eat them, and the cat and the dog get the bones. I’ve seen it all through the window. That ill-omened young Jetsom is in the pie-dish now. Take advice when you can get it. The cook plucked him an hour ago. Capital eating, you may be sure! You fed him so well with worms, you know. So kind of you! Take advice when you can get it. I see the smoke coming out of the chimney now; they’re baking down below. You’ll find his feathers in the back-yard presently. Take advice—”

“Stop that, and go and look for your tail-feathers,” said the angry voice of the mother. And she ordered her husband to drive the old wretch away, but at that moment Jetsom flew into the nest. Great was the delight and excitement of the parents; but seeing his exhausted state, his mother sent her husband off on the instant for a cargo of worms, and when she bethought herself next of old Gaffer, that prudent old rook was not to be seen.

It was a great triumph. Gaffer’s fame as a prophet was at the lowest ebb. But he knew the ways of the world, and the foibles of his kind; he stuck to his point none the less for his defeat, and never ceased to assert that young Jetsom was a mistake, and ought never to have been hatched out. Some of the older birds shared this opinion, and as time went on Gaffer began to notice with great satisfaction that Jetsom was of a disposition likely to get him into trouble.